Otherworld
by JMK758
Summary: Sequel to 'Into the Light', this is a glimpse into the possible world of the NCIS' future, though the key events focus on my story 'Fantasy Affair'. We see here the shadows of what may be while seeing a possible, brighter look into the characters we love.
1. A New Case

This NCIS story takes place at the beginning of my story 'Fantasy Affair', though quite behind the scenes. A year ago I presented a glimpse into a future NCIS called 'Into the Light' which depicted the final retirement of L.J. Gibbs. It introduced the character of Su Lin Palmer, who is the central figure of this story. She'll appear again in a mystery episode 'Penalties'.  
As usual, I'll say that NCIS is owned and copyrighted by Belisarius Productions. I make no money on this and I'm not trying to take anything except Abby, Jennifer, Michelle and Ziva. The characters referred to in this story are purely fictional and bear no similarity to anyone, living, dead or yet to be born.  
The time is the mid-2030's as well as the early 2000's. Come see how.

Otherworld  
JMK758  
Chapter One  
A New Case

The woman seated at the other side of my desk is about thirty years old, black hair, blue pants suit, diamond ring and gold wedding band on her left hand, an old gold Rolex from the early twenty-teens on the same arm. The crumpled white handkerchief in her hands is already damp from tears and she clings tightly to that black purse upon her lap. She's been here in my office for ten minutes already and I don't know much more about why she's here than when she'd first knocked on my outer door.

All I do know, when I dropped my shields, is that she has slightly better self control than I'd thought. Outwardly she's clearly frightened and prone to tears; inwardly she is a maelstrom of panic.

I sit still, giving her my best 'I'm-here-to-help-you' expression, while I debate casting a calming spell so she'll stop crying long enough to tell me why she's here. Discretion and professionalism win out, of course. It's never a good idea to influence anyone's emotions without an overwhelmingly good reason, and it's quite unethical to cast a spell on a client. Sorry, potential client.

"Ms. Palmer, I really need you to–" She says nothing more; it makes me wonder if she truly knows what she wants.

"Mrs. Carson, you came to me to find and stop your husband John before he, quote, 'does something stupid'." There, that is pretty much all I've gleaned in five minutes. "What makes you think he will do 'something stupid'?"

"I know him. He's always doing something stupid."

x

Okay, big help there. It may make for an interesting marriage, but as a client to P.P.I. contract it's not very helpful. Did she think that as a fellow woman I'd simply understand? I've often thought that, as a breed, men are hard-wired for stupidity, and many men have helped me to maintain that outlook, but that indulgent thought'll get me nowhere in solving this case – whatever it is. "Can you give me something specific, preferably about this case?"

The call for specifics seems to rally her, as I had hoped. She sees I'm willing to help and fights back tears enough to start speaking intelligibly. "Well, John's been obsessed for years about his father, who's been in prison for almost all of John's life and who died about four months ago. He blames the people who sent his father to prison for cheating him out of a life with him. I'm scared he's going to go after them."

"Mrs. Carson, this is a matter for the police–"

"I _can't_ go to the police, they'll kill him!" All right, I'll come back to that. The woman looks up over my head, then meets my eyes and declares "you're the only one who can help me."

Good for the ego, but I have my doubts. I don't glance back; there's only one thing on the wall behind me and I know it intimately. It's a large color photograph of a left eye that 'aunt' Abby gave me when I'd opened 'Otherworld Investigations' two years ago. I'd liked it so much I made it the company's official logo, a bit to my dad's chagrin since it's his left eye. It's a nice set of colors, primarily hazel - green to me - but inside the pupil is a five pointed silver star enclosed in a silver circle. I occasionally think of aunt Abby and her sense of humor when I look at it, since she chose my dad's eye. He's nice and conservatively normal; mom and I are the Witches.

Nonetheless, to see it often makes me feel closer to them, like in a sense they're both watching over me.

x

"Mrs. Carson, since you selected 'Otherworld Investigations', you are undoubtedly aware that I specialize in what people call the 'supernormal'. I can find your husband, I'm sure of that; but if he is bent on revenge, his actions may well cross the boundary into the criminal and that's outside my jurisdiction."

I let her digest this. The provisions of my P.P.I. license are specific. Over the years, 'paranormal investigation' has become a legitimately recognized practice far removed from its earlier definition. We do not investigate the supernormal; we use the supernormal _for_ our investigations.

But despite my specialty, I am not a sworn police officer. I gather information, and do so for both private clients as well as for the MPDC, with whom I have a working relationship and _occasionally_ a substantial – if inconsistent – Consulting retainer. This means that sometimes they call me in and pay me and sometimes they tell me to get lost – usually depending upon the officer heading said investigation. I'd gotten this consulting contract primarily by having a history of getting the job done where few who work inside the box can do it. I do not work inside the box.

To be honest, there are days I have trouble finding the box.

But when it comes to criminal activity, unless it comes to citizens' arrests with the myriad of laws covering that, most of the time I turn over my information, collect my fee and bow out. Gracefully.

"Ms. Palmer, I'll pay anything you ask, sign whatever you want. Just find him. Stop him before he does something terrible."

"All right, Mrs. Johnson, my fee is fifteen hundred a day plus expenses. There is a scale of additional fees should such services become necessary." I pull out a paper from the middle drawer of my desk and pass it to her. Now that she is sure I'll help, she doesn't bat an eye at the prices, though the least expensive item is $500.

"Done. When can you start?"

"Right away." I take from another folder in the drawer a standard contract and hand it to her. She is either the world's foremost speed reader or barely glances at the seventy three lines of print before she takes a pen out of her purse and signs it. Then she pulls out a checkbook, opens it and fills out a check for $4,500. She's at least read that much.

When she hands the papers to me, it's a done deal. "How will you begin?"

"With some tough questions. First, do you have a picture of your husband?"

"Right here." she pulls from her purse a three by five photograph and hands it to me. Brown hair, brown eyes, cleft chin; I memorize it so I'll know him on sight and slip it and the other papers into a file folder.

"You said your father-in-law was in prison. For how long?"

"More than twenty five years."

"Why?"

"He was accused of stealing military secrets, plans for a weapon."

"Did he do it?"

"Not according to John, but the government locked him up and threw away the key. Every time a parole hearing would come up, it was always squashed. Ultimately John gave up hope – and chose revenge instead."

"And you say he's looking for revenge against the people who _put_ his father in jail? Twenty five years ago? Who are they?"

"They're Federal Agents, police for the Navy and Marines, the 'NCIS'. I never learned their first names, any time John mentioned them it was with such hatred I didn't want to go into anything. I only know the names Gibbs, DiNozzo, McGee and Daveed."

x

My stomach clenches at those familiar names, and I wonder how seriously I've offended the Karmic gods that she comes to _me_, of all the admittedly few possible people, to do this. I keep my hands still, flat upon the desktop with considerable effort.

"I'm afraid he's going to be disappointed. You see, I know these people. Leroy Jethro Gibbs passed away over a year ago; he was close to ninety. Anthony DiNozzo is Director of NCIS, the headquarters is here in DC. Professor Timothy McGee teaches Computer Forensics at George Washington University and Ziva David moved back to Israel eight years ago, where she's now Deputy Director of the Israeli Secret Service."

"You're sure Mr. Gibbs is dead?"

"I was at the hospital when he died."

"Why were _you_ there?"

I don't want to answer that question, so I don't. It's none of her business anyway. LeeJay Gibbs was an honorary 'uncle' to me; I knew him – well, he knew _me_ from when I was an infant in the Maternity Ward. My memories start quite a bit later, of course. I knew all the people mom and dad worked most closely with as 'aunt' this and 'uncle' that and his death, though peaceful, had hit me hard. I remember doing a lot of crying that day, because we knew for hours before that the end had come. It was also the last time everyone – almost everyone – I knew from my childhood had been together. Until the next funeral, that is.

"I can tell you that if your husband wants revenge against those four people he'll have a hard time. The law requires that I warn the three surviving principals," Warn? I'd stand guard over all of them if I could, "and in one case it's simply far too late."

She sits back. "I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. But you said you could find him?"

"Yes," I tell her, and don't comment on her words. If I'm going to keep secrets, I can't act offended if she's disappointed they're out of reach.

x

I reach into the lower right drawer and pull out a small mahogany box. It's four inches square and two high, inlayed on top with a circled star of lighter wood and, when I lift the lid, inside are a dozen sterling silver disks, each about the size of a silver dollar, each sealed in clear plastic.

"Mrs. Carson, did you perhaps bring something personal of your husband's, something only he would have contact with?"

"No, I didn't know you'd need anything. I could go home and get something. But wait;" she takes out her wallet and pulls out her Identity chit. "This is the only thing I have that I'm sure he's the only other one who's touched it in years."

"That should do." The two by three metal chit contains everything, in a 100MB data cell, that will ever be known about Ruth Carson. I'd never let anyone but my husband touch mine – if I _had_ a husband.

At my nod, she tears open the plastic and lays the silver disk upon the chit.

x

"That will be sufficient. Just put it back into the bag and set it on the desk." When she does so, I tell her "it's possible I'll get an impression right away. Please wait in the outer room. Tina can get you a coffee or whatever else you'd like." I take a business card out of the stand on the corner of the desk and hand it to her. The ivory card contains the company name and logo, a line drawing of the photo above my head with the circle pentagram prominent in it, my name and contact information.

"_Miss_ Su Lin Palmer?"

"I don't like 'Ms'. It's less being old fashioned and more not being pretentious. In my business misunderstandings, even in small things, can come back to haunt you." I don't mention that while my jobs occasionally involve finding lost people, this is my almost subtle way of saying that I would ultimately like to find someone for myself.

When she's gone I take the disk, still in the plastic, stand up and move around the desk. As I do so, I catch a glimpse of myself in the full length Scrying mirror on the right wall beside the door. The image is all too familiar, but I am just vain enough to take a second to make sure everything is how I want it to be. Jet black hair styled to fall just below my shoulders – the black hair I'd inherited from my mother is enhanced by my father's curls to give me just enough of a wave. Since I may be leaving the office, possibly immediately, I check my red dress, the small sterling silver Wicca pin – the circle star – glints above my left breast. I have mom's Asian complexion and features, even to the eyes, but they are dad's 'hazel' eyes, and in height I fall closer to mom's. People have said I look like mom did when she was my age, but I hate comparisons, always have.

My birth certificate might bear the name Susan Linda (father's name: James, mother's name: Michelle) but I go by Su Lin.

Again, it's the eyes.


	2. Mobius

Chapter Two  
Mobius

I switch off my lights, therefore the air conditioner, silencing the office and any distractions. I carry the disk to the day bed across the room, lie down upon it and get comfortable. I have to do considerably more than that; I have to clear my mind of all distractions, prepare myself to receive impressions unfiltered by conscious thought. It takes about a minute to do this and, when I feel I'm ready I raise the bag to my forehead, slip the disk out and let it lie there.

I don't try to call an image but allow my mind to drift. Very gradually the blackness lightens; vague shapes and lines of color start to appear, what John Carson is seeing right this second. I just let it come, unfiltered, unhurried, allow the vision to gradually lighten and resolve into images.

I'm in an office, a _very_ large office which encompasses almost an entire floor, broken up into cubicles. There's a wide window several yards away that overlooks Washington, the Capital dome prominent in the distance. A skylight over my head floods the room with enough light that the fluorescents are barely necessary. I know this room; I've been in it so many times in my life that I have to check myself that I am not remembering two weeks ago, that I'm actually seeing it through Carson's eyes.

My heart almost skips a beat but I fight it down. He's already in NCIS, though why I don't know, but if he's looking for his targets there he won't find them.

The image pans right, past a desk where a black haired woman sits, her back to me and she doesn't look a bit like Ken Smalley. It's too fast a turn before the image halts at my mother's desk and I expect to see her looking up at me. She's 'Deputy Special Agent-in-Charge', but following the example of her mentor she also stayed in the field, heading up the MCR team that uses the same bullpen section she'd originally started in when–

It's _not_ mom! There's a grey haired man seated at mom's desk and I've known him almost since I was born! His face is unlined, younger than I ever knew him, his grey hair still tinged with brown rather than snow white and that face is so wrong my eyes fly open! Gasping, I lose the image, I'm utterly shocked and sit up so fast the disk flies off my forehead to land in my lap. I pant for breath, my chest heaving as I struggle to understand the impossible!

I just saw _uncle LeeJay_! Sitting at mom's desk! Alive. _Young_. Well, younger than I've ever known him and he's been dead over a year! I was at his funer–!

But these aren't memories. The man whose psychic pattern the disk is linked to is seeing them right now, this very second.

But that's impossible!

x

I do not try again. My mind has to be clear and calm to get an impression and there is no way I can be called 'calm'. I get off the couch, shove the disk into my dress pocket and try to get my breathing under control. How can a man – today – be looking at Leroy Jethro Gibbs while he's still alive? There is only one way I can think of and it fills me with dread.

I go to the door and stop, restraining myself from yanking it open and bellowing '_Get In Here_!' I grasp the knob, turn it slowly and deliberately and pull the door open as though the Earth hasn't just tilted me off.

"Mrs. Carson," I say to the woman seated in the cushioned chair at the far side of Tina's desk, my tone as calm as I can possibly make it, "may I ask if your husband ever mentioned _how_ he plans to get revenge on NCIS?"

"He did say something about 'Mobius' and 'Starstruck', if that will help."

"Thank you, it does."

I close the door, let it click shut, and give myself brownie points for not indulging in slamming it with a shriek of rage. Yes, 'Mobius' and 'Starstruck' would have been very nice to know.

A _Mobius_ Transition. And the only company I know in all of DC, not that there are many at all, irresponsible enough to offer it to a potential murderer.

I sit down at my desk again and go through three of the ten primary calming exercises in order before I feel I'm in control enough to deal with this. I slide aside the protective cover upon my desktop, the inlaid computer is already active and I insert the receiver unit into my left ear; I want to make sure our conversation won't be heard outside and speak the word that over the years has become the bane of my existence.

x

The cyberspace connection is made in less than a second. "Hello, Starstruck?" I put a smile in my voice rather than the growl I want to use. "This is Su Lin Palmer, Otherworld Investigations. Who's this? Ah, good, Kelly -" the _one_ person I know there with half a brain. She shouldn't be working for those–. "Tell me, Kel, have you had a client recently who requested a Mobius transition? Yes? John Carson? Yes. Tell me, do you have the date? Yes, I know it's confidential but his wife is in my offices and she's worried about him. No, he didn't. Yes, he should have. Tell you what, just give me the date and duration, I'll reassure her as to how long he'll be gone and from when and we'll keep it to ourselves. No, I won't let there be any trouble. All right. Vacation package, one week. Yes, I have the dates. Thanks, Kel. I won't let it come back to haunt you. Yes, bye."

I touch a button, then replace the receiver unit into its slot and slide the cover back over the computer, force my left hand open from clenching so hard it nearly drew blood and mentally shriek '_You brainless, money grubbing Bastards, I'll have your license pulled for this! You sent a potential murderer back more than two decades to kill his victims and screw the temporal_–!'

x

I sharply stop my silent rant. It may feel cleansing but it doesn't help anything. I try to force a lid onto my temper and think. A witch needs control of her mind and especially her emotions and it's time to stop indulging and get to work.

All right, Carson is in the past so I have to be. How to do it isn't the issue, I've got my own Mobius method. What I'm going to do when I get there – _that's_ the problem.

I return to my desk, reach into the second drawer on the right and pull out my Taser. A gun would be too risky even if I had one. My P.P.I. license doesn't permit me to carry deadly weapons but the Taser, accurate up to thirty yards, is deemed to be defensive, so I have a Carry Permit. I just hope Carson doesn't compel me to wish for more.

From a metal box tucked back well behind the weapon I pull out a leather case. I don't want it, it's not mine, it's outdated, more of just a souvenir, but I have a distinct feeling I'm going to _need_ it; and I always go with my feelings. I open the leather folder to the metallic gold badge.

It's my mother's old badge, which she'd actually managed to talk uncle – I mean _Director _– Tony into letting me have when she'd gotten her Supervisor's shield. I knew full well they'd stretched regulations far, far beyond the breaking point. If it weren't me it would never have happened, but I now suspect maybe mom knew it would come in handy some day – maybe today? – and she can be pretty darn persuasive. It didn't hurt that the shield had already been in the redesign phase; ten months later it was as valid as a Dodge City Sheriff's tin star.

The government had been typically efficient in collecting the old ones from Agents: I heard that over 60 percent had become mementos at transition time.

Anyway, I had discretely tucked the box into the back of the drawer and didn't quite forget it. Good thing.

There's no ID, of course, but I pull my own P.P.I. license from my wallet, put my own shield and folder into the box and lock it. I slip the license into the plastic and hope I'll never have to flash the new combination because the ID is nothing like NCIS'; they didn't even use holograms way back then, they used 2D photographs. Of course, it could look quite a bit like mom's face if you glance quickly enough and don't notice the green eyes – or that it's a 3-D hologram. Turn the card and you're looking at my profile.

The last thing I tuck into a thin pocket of my wide red belt is a set of plastic restraints.

Knowing the date and time Carson transitioned, I plan to arrive a bit earlier, to catch him on arrival. But time flows at the same rate on both sides of the temporal barrier so I must be cautious or I could screw up completely. That's one reason I _hate_ Mobius transitioning; I'm messing with my _own life_ here. I touch the intercom set into the right corner of my desk. "Tina, would you come in please?"

It only takes her a few seconds. "I have to go away for a while," I tell her, not looking forward to it. I've done it often enough to know that transition vertigo is unavoidable and a total bitch. Of course, if I can be on site when Carson transitions, then to stop him will be a piece of cake.

I don't trust the 'easy' jobs. I learned from uncle Leejay his set of rules and my first one is: 'Easy jobs are the ones that really bite you on the ass. Hard.'

x

"I figured that when I heard about Mobius," Tina says when I fill her in on where I'm going. She always was quick on the uptake. "How long will you be gone?"  
"I _hope_ five minutes, but I can't get that lucky. Collect the fee for Mobius from Mrs. Carson and send her home. If I'm not back by closing, reschedule my appointments and give them the old soft shoe. I'll call you as soon as I'm back."

"Don't make it three in the morning, Harry gets pissed."

"I'll try."

There's a lot of memory in that pseudo-casual exchange, not much of it pleasant. I once transitioned and barely made it back alive; I returned into Tina's living room because, bleeding half to death, hers was the only room my mind could focus on clearly enough. I live alone so going home was useless. She and Harry had broken most DC laws getting my delirious carcass to the hospital. I can only _hope_ for better this time.

x

There's nothing more to say and I've wasted enough time. I've already decided where I'm going and I'll arrive there at night, well before Carson's time. I remember the Carson Senior case, I'd needed only the reminder. I grew up on stories of NCIS cases; why read mystery novels when you can hear the real thing from the people that lived them? I know where I can have a chance to arrive without being seen. Once I'm there, I can identify Carson Junior's transition point and be waiting.

It's a good plan, and the thing about good plans that I really hate is how often and how easily they screw up! I have never had a case that worked out exactly as I'd envisioned it. Well, I just have to pray, trust in the Goddess, and do the one thing I've been taught to do more than anything else: improvise very quickly.

I turn to the mirror and have to force myself to relax. It is more than just relaxing; it's total relaxation of body and mind and focusing on the power I need and where I want it to take me. I can see Tina and myself reflected in the glass; I have to focus on what lies beyond.

I close my eyes, the better to concentrate, and when I am ready I step forward.

The glass is a sensation that sweeps past my body as I walk, keeping my eyes closed to hold my concentration on the spell. I could open them but I've seen the transition before - light and color flash by me in the dark silence in a mind-warping chaos and the first time had scared the willies out of me. Ever since then I skip seeing the show, holding my concentration on where I am going and assure myself I'm doing it for greater concentration, _not_ because it scares me.

I wait until the lights flashing past my eyes have stopped and the lids are dark, then I open my eyes into total darkness. I'm in the real world, gravity and air are back and can't see a thing. An instant later the transition vertigo slams into me and I stagger; my hands out blindly as I fall into something that slams into my hips. My hands come down and my left hits something, dislodges it and it falls to the floor with a loud metallic clatter that rocks my nerves.

x

There's motion in the darkness in front of me, urgent unclear whispers; a second later my eyes are stung by the light of a large high power lamp. I'm in a huge white room, half bent over a gleaming silver table. There's another one beyond it and two other people stand together on its other side, the young couple facing me and sharing a large white sheet probably pulled off the table to hide their nakedness. His hand is on the switch of the light beside them and I can barely see them in the glare. The woman, being smaller than her partner, has better luck behind the sheet; the man is visible from waist up. I'm not sure which of the three of us is the most surprised.

It takes me a second and then I'm staggered, this time inside, because I _recognize_ them.

A second Transition vertigo – aren't I lucky, I get two, obviously caused by no lunch before starting out – slams full force into me. I teeter backward and a moment before I slam to the floor like a stringless marionette I'm lucky enough that my personal lights go out, so if I do hit it really hard I don't know it.


	3. The Goddess is having too much fun with

Chapter Three  
The Goddess is having too much fun with me.

When the world gradually lightens, sight and sound come back on and I'm lying down, bright lights from the white ceiling in front of my eyes. Whatever I'm laying on is hard, and my mind fills in 'cloth covered metal table', something I'm sure I never want to know myself to be on. Memories of so many years fill in details of a familiar room but I have no time to orient myself. Two people, a man and woman, dressed now thank the Goddess, come to stand on either side of my head, the man on my left; and they are the worst two people in the entire world I can imagine transitioning in on unannounced. I hadn't recognized them in the first second I had before being slammed to the floor, did recognize them in the second and was profoundly shocked; I remember that. I plead the Fifth; you can't _ever_ get used to walking in on your _parents_ when they were–.

And because I'm still dazed I reach up with my left hand, touch his face and in an almost mindless sing-song voice say the first stupid-headed thing that pops into my addled brain: "Oh Goddess, you're so _young_!"

"What?"

Adrenaline slaps me awake better than a hand to my cheek and I pull my own back as memory restores itself. "Nothing." I then ask the most ridiculous questions I have in weeks, not because I don't know the answers all too well but only because I probably should. "Where am I? What happened?"

"You fainted," dad tells me. I can't stop staring into his young face; he looks hardly any older than I do! And mom…. "You're in NCIS Autopsy."

x

I look at the blue scrubs he's wearing, an image I've known forever, but I bite my tongue to keep from asking 'am I dead?' Dazed is one thing, _stupid_ is unforgivable. And in twenty five years I've never managed to put anything over on either of them.

The realization of that, and the second burst of adrenaline that accompanies it, kicks my brain hard enough for me to know I have to be very, very careful. "I'm sorry; I think I know why I fainted. I haven't eaten in – a while." Like twenty five plus years and then some.

"What do you remember?" mom asks from my right, her voice heavy with apprehension. I can read her thoughts clearly on her face. 'Do you remember catching us?'

"I came down here to see Doctor Mallard." I look around, knowing I won't find him. I know, from their stories, where he is. "Is he here?"

"No," dad tells me.

"It's after seven," mom says.

It was reasonable for all of us to expect to have been alone here, undoubtedly why they'd chosen this time for their private rendezvous. _I_ certainly expected the hour to be safe.

"He's gone to La Chateau Julienne for dinner," dad tells me, as though expecting I would know where Julienne is. I do, but that's beside the point.

I remember the story very well. Ducky had met uncle Tim and his future wife – future wife, they weren't even _dating_ and she's still a priest – aunt Abby and her friend Dawn Caldwell for dinner just before the Carson case began. That's why I'd expected Autopsy to be empty, at least until they come in with the bodies of Albert and Nikita Morrison. Dad had been on the scene, mom had been home, she wasn't a Field Agent back then, she'd worked for the Legal department. Unfortunately, though understandably, they'd certainly never mentioned what they'd been doing here _before_ the murders.

For a brief instant I think of what it would be like to see everyone as they are now. Like seeing mom and dad, an infinitely bad idea, I know, but still.

Today uncle Ducky is alive and well. He will die years from now immediately after teeing off on the 18th hole in Glasgow at the ripe age of 80, so fast, I'm told, that he never knew it. Aunt Abby is still enjoying her Goth period, long before a Professorship in Forensic Science at George Washington University will force her to more sedate styles. Uncle Tim, dear uncle Tim, author of over a dozen Best Sellers, is not yet a Professor of Computer Forensics at G.W.U. He's not even _dating_ his future wife – to say nothing of having two sons and a daughter – and _she's_ still a parochial Priest. She was elevated to Bishop of the Diocese of Washington four years ago and would think me _nuts_ if I ever dared let it slip by calling her 'your Grace', or worse, 'aunt Siobhan'.

Then again, I might really slip, call her 'Mother McGee' - the only formal title I'd _ever_ known her as - and really screw things up!

No, best to do what I came to do and not lay eyes on a single one of them!

x

"I'm Jimmy Palmer, Assistant Medical Examiner," dad says and extends his hand, reminding me that only a second of real time has passed while I was playing mental badminton. Mom introduces herself too and the situation is just too surreal for words.

"Hi," I take his hand, half expecting the universe to explode in some sort of temporal cataclysm, "I'm Su Lin P –" _Damn_! "Parker," I finish, covering it up with a fake cough.

I am going to Hell.

He looks over my red dress and doesn't find a Visitor's Pass. This time is clearly for show, he'd seen long ago that I had no authorization to be here. "This building is secure."

I glance at mom on my right and track her eyes to the small silver Wiccan circle star pinned over my left breast. It'd never occurred to me to remove it before transitioning.

I am so absolutely going to Hell!

x

There's only one thing I can think of to do, and it will either get me out of this mess or make everything blow up in my face – more than it already has. I reach into the pocket of my dress and draw out the leather ID case. I open it carefully and keep a tight grip, not letting them see the ID side, just the shield. I don't meet his eyes. "I'm from New York."

I put it away immediately and thank the Goddess when I look up and see he's satisfied.

"Doctor Mallard won't be coming back tonight." Oh, how little you suspect. "You can see him in the morning."

Actually, seeing him is no part of my plan. I should avoid them at all costs, especially uncle LeeJay, who can see through a lie the way I see through glass. "It's all right; tomorrow will be fine."

I sit up, grateful not to be hit with another jolt of vertigo. My body has adjusted to this time, even if my brain hasn't.

"You should eat something," dad says.

"Huh?"

"You fainted. Your blood sugar may be low. There's a 24 hour cafeteria on 4, I can bring you up so you can get something.

"Jimmy." I glance to my right in time to see mom glare at him. She is not happy.

"What?" he looks at her, completely innocent; clearly not understanding her annoyance.

I can't blame either of them. He can't know why he'd made the offer or has any concern at all for my well being, and it is too freaky for words that I saw jealousy in mom's eyes.

x

"I'm fine, Mr. Palmer. The truth is I'm mildly diabetic, but I have my meds."

He nods, being quite familiar with the problem and its symptoms. He should be; I'd inherited that little problem from him, though it hadn't manifested itself until puberty.

I'm saved any further half-truths and outright lies by a ringing sound. He steps over to a table and picks up a device that's nearly half the size of his hand, having to lift the lid of the antique and hold one end to his ear and the other end of the … cell phone … to his lips. Boy, how things change in two plus decades.

"Yes, doctor?" He listens, his eyes on mom and her expression is equally unguarded. "Yes, sir, I can drive to the Navy Yard, pick up the van and drive over there."

'Dad,' I think, mildly disappointed, 'you are such a fibber!'

He closes the phone. "There's been a murder, two murders, actually."

"At Chateau Julienne?" he nods, actually not as annoyed as mom is. "Can't there be just _one_ night without something–?"

"He's there with Agent McGee, Abby and her friend Dawn Caldwell and the new Chaplain the Director just appointed. Doctor Mallard was taking them all out to dinner."

Mom sighs, looking at her watch, "Short dinner."

"They never even got seated. I have to go."

"Not too fast," she cautions, "it'll take you more than twenty minutes to get 'here'."

"Oh, yeah."

"Look," I say, not wanting to linger any longer and definitely do not wanting to know how they plan to waste those twenty minutes, "I'd better be going, it was really nice to meet you. I've got to run."

I don't quite run out the sliding doors, but it's pretty damn close.

x

I hit the down button on the wall, determined to find a good place to wait unobserved in the garage until I sense the opening of a Mobius portal. The doors open a second later, there are three people already in the car and I can do no more than glance at them before I board and turn to the door.

Dana or one of the other Goddesses is definitely having too good a time at my expense. Why _else_ would she put me in an elevator car with uncle LeeJay, uncle Tony and aunt Ziva?

I feel them at my back like a psychic weight. I'd allowed myself no more than a glimpse before I turned away but in my mind I can still see them. Uncle LeeJay is alive, his grey hair peppered with brown rather than the snow white I'd come to know as an adult; but his piercing eyes remained unchanged through the decades. Uncle Tony's hair is still all dark, not with the distinguished spots of grey at each temple. Today he is Senior Field Agent; in my 'today' he sits in aunt Jennifer's old office. Aunt Ziva is still the fiery, exotic beauty I knew before she returned to Israel eight years ago to take up a post as Deputy Director of Mossad.

"What are you doing here at this hour, Probette?" uncle Tony's voice manages to convey little doubt that he feels he knows the answer.

Against my will I turn, but when I look up into his face my voice just shuts off. I know I'm standing here like a blank eyed idiot, but I simply can't say a word.

"Sorry," he says, "I thought you were someone else."

His eyes then actually stroke my body in a way they never, ever have before. He now knows me to be a stranger, or thinks he does. He thought I was mom; we look enough alike at first glance 'today' except my hair's a lot shorter and inherited some of dad's curliness to make a wave to my shoulders, but there's enough of–

"I'm Tony, by the way."

"S-Su L-Lin," I stammer. Yes, Dana or Hecate or someone is definitely having too good a time with me.

"I've never seen you here before."

"I – I – I'm just here for a little bit."

"Well, maybe we can get together for a–"

Thank the Goddess the doors open on the garage and we get out. My mouth is hanging open and nothing will come out. A man I've known since I was in _diapers_ is _hitting_ on me?

"Come on, DiNozzo," LeeJay demands impatiently as he heads off with Ziva to his car.

"On your six, boss," he calls, trots after them and leaves me standing here gaping like a goldfish tossed onto the lawn. I read his eyes; he'd rather have been on _my_ six! Or my twelve.

As Tony reaches the others, LeeJay's hand comes up quickly and smacks the back of Tony's head, a gesture I've seen a thousand times.

"Thank you, boss."

I watch them get into a car and drive up the ramp leading to the street. Left behind in the silence, I really want to find a place to lie down.


	4. The Battle in Autopsy

Chapter Four  
The Battle in Autopsy

I reach into the pocket of my red dress and take out the old black ID folder, open it and pull out mom's old gold shield. It's a clip-on rather than a pin and I slip it over the red belt. The way my night is going, it can't make things worse by displaying it. Goddess forbid that I should get stopped and someone makes me hand over the case and see my holographic P.I. license rather than an NCIS ID. There is no way I can avoid direct action then; and I have the feeling Dana is not through having fun with me yet.

No sooner do I clip the shield on and put the case away when I feel it. The sensation goes through my body with a mild tingle and mental awareness too clear to be mistaken. A Mobius Transfer conduit is forming – about twenty feet above my head. _Autopsy_!

A really old Anglo-Saxon word echoes through the garage when I turn to the elevator – and the Iris scanner attached to the wall beside it.

Thank the Goddess I practically grew up in this building. I run across the garage to the Emergency stair, slam the door open and charge up the stairs, take them three at a time and strive hard for four!

I slam open the back door to Autopsy and find the complex dark save for the light in the elevator foyer beyond the sliding doors at the other end of the room. Thank Dana and Dagda mom and dad left right after I did! I slap the lights on from the secondary switches behind me.

As the lights come on throughout the white room the sensations that play along my skin and jangle my nerves reach a peak. In front of me, between the second and third silver tables, the front of a man appears, followed by the rest of him along a perfectly flat plane until he is completely in the room.

John Carson the younger staggers, hit by the same transition vertigo that had laid me out, and from under my belt I pull out my Taser. It's barely half an inch thick, about as long as dad's antique phone but capable of firing a wireless charge of 100 kilovolts over 90 feet.

"John Carson," I call in my most commanding tones, "surrender in the name of the North American Union." When he looks at me, his eyes show how badly he is suffering the vertigo – first timer, I have no sympathy – and he's utterly surprised I got here first. It's one of the few beauties of temporal transiting, and one of the many things I'm sure those money-grubbers at Starstruck never mentioned. "Turn around and put your hands behind your head."

"You – can't arrest me. I've done nothing."

"I'll let the courts decide that. Turn around."

Actually they already have. Knowing a person is going to commit a crime is one thing, arresting him for it goes to conspiracy but I'll take that over so many friends dead. Maybe they'll throw in mucking with the Temporal Line if they can find a jury that'll understand it. Not my problem.

I'm ready when he yanks an Osale 39 from his pocket; my left hand slaps it from his grip from six feet away and it slams into the far wall. He clutches his wrenched hand, surprise leaping up to astonishment. What was he thinking? Witches made it possible for him to be here, how is he surprised a witch came for him? In his momentary uncertainty I try for reason.

"Your _wife_ sent me from three days after you left; she's scared to death for you. So far, you haven't done anything wrong," I'm willing to overlook the gun if he'll cooperate, "so let's just go back. You can return to your wife a free man." And I'll close the door to future trips to the past through Starstruck and everyone else.

I watch anger and frustration run with a dozen other emotions across his face and almost sympathize; he's been stopped almost before he began. Fortunately, he doesn't seem stupid. Eventually the tide of emotions withdraws, and it is with a sigh of resignation that he turns around.

I approach, Taser ready in my hand while from a hidden pocket inside my belt I pull out a set of plastic restraints, by no means willing to trust him in the vortex. "Put your hands behind your head, fingers interlaced."

My attention on his hands, like a probie I'm not watching his feet. His right foot comes back up hard and slams into my crotch!

I grit my teeth to contain a shriek – don't let any man tell you being kicked there doesn't _hurt_! The Taser slips from my hand and I throw myself backward rather than writhing on the floor in agony. I barely avoid the knife that slices so close I can feel the air cut. I back away quickly and dodge another swipe, the deadly tool coming inches from my chest. He slashes again; I barely manage to back out of the way! No time! I need a second to focus! It's not like raising an eldritch shield; a physical attack takes the second he's not giving me! I duck and weave, his slashes come too close as I try to maneuver to get at least one table between us!

The huge glass and metal doors across the room slide open as I jump back to avoid a murderous lunge across the table, but now I have a second but before I can use it–

x

"_Stop_!" a familiar voice slices through the room and Carson staggers, nearly dropping the knife. I look past him, astonished to see _mom_ standing at the door, left hand upraised toward him. Carson staggers again, drops the blade and staggers into the middle table.

My eyes can see nothing, but my inner vision 'sees' a whipping silver cord that extends from Carson's back to mom's upraised hand. As he grows weaker, less coordinated, she grows stronger.

The interruption has bought me the second I need. Though we're six feet apart, I draw my right hand back and thrust it forward, hard, and Carson's blasted off his feet, flies through the air and slams into the cooling lockers in the far wall. He's dazed, _should_ be out cold but it allows me to reach across the room to the supply drawers at my right and pull one open from where I stand.

Thank the Goddess for dad's consistency as Chief M.E.; he never changed uncle Ducky's system so two elastic strips leap at my gesture out of the drawer and across the room, stretching to their limits as they fly. One wraps tightly about Carson's ankles, knots itself, the other about his hands.

Mom's hands close steadily, one upon the other, compressing the force she'd stolen. She forces it smaller and smaller until it's compact enough and she hurtles it like an invisible fast ball directly at Carson's skull. The psi energy overloads his brain; he falls to the floor just as I had earlier, a marionette whose strings have been cut.

As the dénouement to this double team capture I pull, from by the second table, at the lever on one of the lower coolers. I get the door open, the tray out, roll Carson's insensate body upon it, slide the tray back in and close the door. He'll keep until I can get us both safely home.

Only then do I turn to my 'partner' in capturing this fugitive, and when I see the look in her eyes I know I'd rather be in the cooler myself than face this.

She crosses the room, her dark almond eyes locked on mine until we're both between the tables and she's looking deep and hard into my eyes. Funny, I'm about an inch taller than her but she always manages to seem bigger than me. She then inspects my body minutely from toes to crown, pausing for an instant at the gold shield at my waist before locking eyes with me again. "I just want the answer to one question," she says with firmness that is utterly familiar, "and I want it to be the _truth_!"

"What?" I brace myself.

"Are you my _daughter_?"


	5. Answers

Chapter Five  
Answers

I've never willingly lied to her before and can't bring myself to do it now, time-line or no.

"Yes."

"How?"

"You said one question."

"Don't argue with your mother!"

How easily she slips into the role. "How did you know?"

She considers for a moment. "I suppose, beyond the resemblance, I could say I'd felt the connection – just like I felt you were in danger – but there's more." She reaches into the back pocket of her pants, pulls out a familiar leather case, opens it and points to a spot on the lower left edge of the gold shield. "See that?"

I look where she touches and find an almost imperceptible scratch in the metal. I pull the badge from my belt and can hardly be surprised at what I find. The metal of the shield in my hand is dimmer for want of years of polishing, but that's the only distinction.

"Parker?" she asks. I shake my head.

"Palmer. Susan Linda. I go by Su Lin."

"Your father–" she cuts herself off and I resign myself to the most surreal conversation I'll probably ever have.

x

"Very much alive, and running this place along with Sammy." I recall, an instant later, that she hasn't met Samantha Marsters – or rather Samantha Sky – yet.

"When did –?" she looks me over, probably having a harder time with this than I am. "You look about my age. When did–?"

"You mean did I almost interrupt my own conception?" She nods, clearly refusing to blush, but there's never been any question of my legitimacy. "You and dad were married for more than three years before I was born - 2011."

"But how –?" not even giving herself time for relief, she wants to move on to the next mystery, trying her best to put chaotic thoughts at this madness into words. "What you did, that's not Wicca. I've _known_ people of power. No one has this kind of power. What you did here is _impossible_!"

"You taught me almost everything I know."

She glances at the cooling units and our prisoner within. "I don't know that! How did –?"

"I shouldn't tell you."

"If you don't want to wind up across my _knee_, you'll tell me!"

I'm too painfully aware that that's no empty threat. Uncle LeeJay has his target, but though it's been a lot of years, with me, mom had hers.

x

"I was something of a problem baby," I confess, leaning back against the silver table. If I'm going to annihilate my future, I might as well be comfortable. "Not a problem child, I was a problem birth. I was two weeks early, hadn't turned and I was breach. My heart stopped once and you were having a really rough time. Dad and uncle Ducky had to deliver me by C-section on this very table." I tap the metal with my fingernails and watch the color drain from her face.

"That was the same day you'd arranged for Rising Star to tour Headquarters. You'd never been able to explain, not even to dad, why you'd insisted on arranging for the entire Coven to visit on that of all days, just before you were ready for Maternity Leave two weeks before my due date. But they were here, all of them, in this room.

"High Priestess Little had them gathered in a wide ring about the table while dad and uncle Ducky worked. Dad was frantic."

"I'll bet."

"The power raised by fourteen witches in a Circle sustained my life. They gave both of us their strength in what was probably the wildest thing to ever happen in this room.

"You and dad raised me to respect equally both your Christian faiths and Wiccan beliefs and practices. Dad never followed it, but he didn't object when you introduced me into the Coven. I was five years old when my powers started to develop and it became clear that what had happened at my birth had made all the difference.

"My strength leapt to unheard of proportions. I was ten times as powerful as a Priestess long before I was old enough to be a legitimate Neophyte. There's no scale of measurement for what I can do now."

x

"And what do you _do_ with your power?" she glances at the badge at my belt, though her concern goes a lot deeper. I know how she feels, what she is thinking. She'd saved me, I'm her daughter, but was Carson the good guy hunting the fugitive – me?

"I became a Private Paranormal Investigator, and two years ago I opened 'Otherworld Investigations'. Witches are not 'underground' as they are today, as you are used to, and there are many people with great power. Some of them make me look like a hedge magician. Some of them even turned it into legitimate businesses."

"Incredible."

"More than you imagine."

"In your time–" She breaks off. "That is so weird. But in your time, are your father and I…?"

"You're both very much together and never really stopped loving each other like newlyweds. You have uncle LeeJay's old job–"

"Uncle _LeeJay_?"

I shrug. "I was born in this room. I visited Headquarters more often than some agents. Your friends were like my family too. Uncle LeeJay was my Godfather, aunt Abby was my Godmother, Mother McGee Christened me–"

"Mother _McGee_?"

I wince. "Please. _Forget_ I said that."

"I can't, not about any of this."

"And there we have a problem."

x

I hadn't wanted to think of it, but the more truth I told the worse things became. I'd come here partially to keep Carson from changing the past and I've blabbed far too much of mom's future.

"I can keep this to myself, don't worry about that."

"I'm not. But aunt Abby's told me about what she calls 'moas', the Mother of All Secrets and what it does to a person. Now I've told you decades of information and I have to go."

"Go?" It's obvious she hadn't considered that, and that she doesn't want me to go.

"Now. I've already contaminated the very things I came here to save. The others will be back from La Chateau Julienne and I have to be gone – with Carson – before they return."

"I – I suppose it's for the best," she admits with heavy wistfulness. "I just wish I had a couple more hours to get to know my – well, my daughter."

"You'll have the rest of our lives." I reach out to her. "Mom."

We hug each other, neither wanting to let go. My left hand presses to the back of her head. "I love you, mom," I whisper in her ear.

x

Five seconds later she sighs, her body going limp against mine. Very carefully I bear her down to the floor, laying her gently upon her back. I wish I could cover her, but I have to leave her like this. I can't take her anywhere, that's impossible so I have to _leave_ her here and take my chances with the time line. I press my lips to hers in a goodbye kiss, come up to my knees, close my eyes and reach out with my thoughts. It's no problem at all to touch a very familiar mind.

Then I hear uncle LeeJay's impatient demand in my mind. "_Where_ would someone get Eldrad's 'Dragonclaw' and Legolas' arrows?"

"Specialty houses?" dad says. I hear his thought first, then his words in an eerie duet, time-delayed by barely a quarter second.

"On-line and published catalogues," uncle Tim speculates, this time a clear voice.

"Fantasy conventions," that same duality of mind and word.

"Re-creation shops."

"Collectables dealers."

There's a moment of silence, then I hear uncle Ducky's voice. He sounds very amused. "What's wrong, Jethro?"

"I've seen a lot of scary things in my time; but Palmer and the 'Elf Lord' working the same wavelength – _that's_ scary."

'Now as much as you can imagine, uncle Leejay,' I think, focusing on dad and hurtling the spell.

Epilogue

About a half hour later, from just within the Mobius Transition barrier, before starting down the vortex of light and matter, I watch as the double doors across the room open and uncle Ducky and dad wheel two gurneys into Autopsy. When Ducky turns on the lights he jumps as dad practically hollers in his ear. "_Michelle_!"

There's no subtlety at all in him as he shoves his gurney aside and runs to mom lying on her back a few feet away from me. I have to smile, watching him rapidly trying to perform the impossible task of simultaneously listening to her heartbeat, checking her pulse, her respiration, temperature and attempting to awaken her.

Fortunately uncle Ducky – oh, how _wonderful_ to see him alive again! – has far more skill with both the dead and the living; his check of mom is far more efficient. It's not more than thirty seconds before she starts to regain consciousness.

"'Chelle, are you all right?"

"Give her a moment, Mr. Palmer," Ducky advises dad, who in his frantic concern is about to blow their presently so-carefully-maintained secret.

"What – what happened?" she asks, quite thoroughly dazed.

"I was rather hoping you could tell us," Ducky replies. "We've only just arrived to find you passed out upon the floor."

"What _happened_?" Dad tries to make it not quite a demand. It doesn't work.

"I don't know."

"Why are you here?"

I sympathize; the spell made him only remember they'd spent some private time here, but that they'd left together. All memory of my interruption is gone.

"I…." She looks around. I can see in her eyes that she's utterly confused, just as I'd hoped. "I don't know…."

I turn, holding my control over Carson next to me and focusing my mind on my office. The cosmos starts to flash past me. Everything will be fine.

o x o x o x o x o x o

I step through the Scrying mirror with my spell-bourn burden and my heart leaps into my throat on a burst of adrenaline as I see my mother seated upon my daybed. I swallow it again when I see it's not an enemy waiting to ambush me while I'm helpless. I didn't consciously select a time to return, letting natural time make that selection for me, so I'm not sure what time it is now.

I _do_ know, however, that Tina wouldn't allow just anyone in here while I was transitioning. Saying 'no' to Michelle Palmer, however – well, let's just say that at NCIS she'd had a _very_ good teacher.

If I hadn't just left her fifteen seconds ago I'd have been startled. Instead, I decide to leap right to flabbergasted, that and sick enough to fall flat on my face. Mom gives me the time I need to recover from the transition vertigo; she just sits waiting patiently until the world stops gyrating in a thousand different, impossible directions. Fortunately, I only have to cling to the edge of my desk for half a minute. Taking a deep breath, I manage to force my body back to normal; at least enough that I don't feel like smashing my face on the carpet.

When I can focus again, with a wave I place John Carson upright in a corner until I can figure out which law enforcement agency could possibly have jurisdiction over him. An immobilization spell coupled with a dissociative one is a great step up from the plastic restraints I'd originally planned. With him thus dazed we can speak freely with no worries about interruption or lost privacy.

"Welcome back," mom says as casually as if I _had_ just seen her moments ago. This version of my mother seated on my daybed may not have even a touch of grey in her long, straight black hair, but unlike the young woman I'd left behind, she is very much the mature mother I know.

"Been waiting long?" I ask as casually as I may, seeing her look of disapproval as she glances at the immobile Carson. She doesn't like my using my powers flagrantly against mundanes.

x

"I was sitting at my desk about an hour ago, reviewing a report from my Senior Field Agent Bill Parsons when," she raises her hands head high, opening both quickly, "bam! This whole flood of 'new' memories pours into my head from a quarter _century_ ago: your father and I were together one evening after work when suddenly we had an unexpected _visitor_."

"Oh, yeah."

"Oh, yeah. This man," she points to Carson, "was in them too."

"I, er," Have you ever known how, no matter how old and independent you are, your parents can just make you feel like a klutzy kid again? "kept the Temporal Prime Directive intact by making sure you'd only remember when time caught up to the present."

"I know." Her tone is surprisingly mild. I look at her closely.

"You're not mad?"

"No. You were very professional. You even kept enough on a subconscious level so I would even buck Leroy Gibbs in insisting on taking Rising Star on a tour of Headquarters on the day you were born. Good catch there; it could really have screwed things up if you'd let that one slip."

"Yeah," I grin, utterly relieved and going with the flow. I'd expected a dressing down worse than those that uncle LeeJay was famous for; the kind that only a mother can lay on you.

"Also, a nice touch in getting me to keep my old shield and give it to you."

"Thanks."

"I called your father; seems he's remembered a lot today too. He's not mad, though. He sent you a message: 'Good control, even unseeing over a distance'."

"Thanks." It means a lot to me to hear this, even if it does leave me even more confused. "But if you approve of what I did – and how I did it –" I bite the bullet, "why are you here?"

She stands up and the mild mannered attitude falls away, letting the steel show through. "I'm here to _discuss_ your flagrant use of magic on your mother and father."

I was right about what I'd thought earlier.

I am _so_ going to Hell.

Fin.

* * *

_To understand what Su Lin did to Jimmy, you'll have to read 'Fantasy Affair'._

Next Episode: Penalties. A murder in Shenandoah Park hits too closely to home for Su Lin Palmer and the NCIS of the 2030's in a heartbreaking tale of deception and betrayal.


End file.
